


Recalibration

by gowerstreet



Series: The Sigerson Files [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF John, Gen, JHW rediscovers his purpose, John Watson is a Good Doctor, Mycroft has his minons, Mycroft is not the British Government, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Mycroft, Rated mature because JHW is a sweary cherub, post-Army John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-26 14:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30107073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gowerstreet/pseuds/gowerstreet
Summary: Modern day AU .  John Watson limps out of the army and nothing happens to him. Until  his response to an accident brings him to the attention of Mycroft Holmes, head of a benevolent but secretive organisation...
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, John Watson & OMC
Series: The Sigerson Files [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2215419
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to noadventureshere, as well as 221bJen, Callie4180, Deej and the rest of the 221b Writers Discord for keeping me company on the other side of the broadband hub. This would not have got this far without you.

The bullets which shattered John’s leg flew so fast that he never heard them. One minute he was crouched over his patient in the back of the Jeep, the next, he was one of them, painting the floor with his blood.

His unit saw him right, though. He was off their base in under an hour, birded over to Bastion and on the next flight home before sunset.

The fractures themselves were the simplest to repair- titanium pins for shattered bones were becoming standard for military casualties, providing improved mobility when compared to more traditional prosthetics. Lost blood was replenished. Tissues mended themselves.

But what felled John, and nearly put him underground was the bug picked up at some point during the UK transfers which blocked his nose, clogged his lungs and developed into an antibiotic defiant infection. The worst of it was that John knew precisely what was happening, mostly from the over-bright, determined quality of the smiles plastered on the faces of the care team. He’d done precisely the same himself whilst on duty.

The hospital chaplain was a regular visitor, who sat by the bed and wittered on for a few minutes before pestering the next poor sod on the ward. John learned he’d go away if his victims failed to respond. He found the choking quiet even tolerable in the moments he was left alone.

Not that there were many. The visitations and inspections seemed to be on timers. Doctors on the hour, nurses at quarter past and quarter to, orderlies who cleared the rubbish and refilled the water jug three times a day.

It took two weeks before non-medical visitors arrived. Sholto, his CO hovered guiltily in the doorway and left a card before walking smartly away before his emotions could catch up with him; Gatiss, with whom he’d swapped his shift the day of the attack, sat there, just as awkward as his own attempt of positivity slid off his face.

And then there was Harriet. Ham-fisted, tear-stained, wine-flushed. As much a piece of human wreckage as he was, but her scars were on the inside.

He really should have died; but for once the probability proved false. Being the exception which proved the rule wasn’t much to celebrate as he left the hospital after nine weeks, stiff-limbed, fog-brained and with no true sense as to how his life could continue from this . He’d clearly survived for a reason, but right now he had no sodding clue what that could be.

The sense of uselessness continued when he received the official release papers on the day he was discharged. Fit enough to stop blocking a bed needed for some other luckless sod, but lacking the required physicality to return to active duty. . He could barely walk the corridor without assistance- what use would he be in a hospital now? And he definitely wasn’t going to pose bravely for the cameras and become the latest star in the inspiration porn in which he’d seen other patients being forced to do.

But like the good soldier he’d been since medical school, he knew he still had orders to complete of sorts. It would be an insult to the colleagues who’d spent weeks salvaging his life? to hide away from his physios. He had a duty to demonstrate that their efforts weren’t in vain. His bedsit inside a resettlement unit screamed institutional blandness. Its very nothingness was what kept people there for as little time as possible. It may have provided basic human comfort, but not even a released prisoner would ever count it as a home. But what else could he do?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later, he would wonder what might have happened if he hadn’t needed to go to the Co-op because he’d run out of fucking milk... 
> 
> The aftermath of an accident brings John to the notice of Mycroft Holmes.

Later, he would wonder what might have happened if he hadn’t needed to go to the Co-op because he’d run out of fucking milk. Probably an eternity of nothing.

It started with the vanishing motorbike.- there and then it wasn’t, with only the sickening scrape of metal across tarmac left as a clue. Something shiny bounced across the road towards him. _Calm down, you daft sod. Not all metal’s shrapnel._

The bags dropped from his hands and his legs were pistoning him down the street towards the clump of traffic forming at the junction. The beautiful bike was now a tangle of metal in front of a double-decker, whose driver sat in the open doorway, his face turning greener by the second. A number of passengers were already holding their phones so as to catch the best view of the catastrophe without getting any further involved. 

John tamped down his fury until only a vicious glare remained. The bus driver flinched.

“W-wasn’t my fault. ...W-white van came out of the junction and smashed right into her. Bike went one way, she went the other.” He indicated to his right, not daring to look. “Slammed me brakes on, so as I din’t hit ‘er…”

He took a deep breath then sank to his haunches. “OK, mate, I understand. Going to ask the paramedics to have a look at you when they arrive. Anyone called 999?”

The driver shrugged. “Dunno. Enough bloody eejits behind me, but din’t hear anyone calling them.”

“ One minute.” John stepped past him, patting his shoulder as he passed into the bus.

“Right.” John’s smile was all glittering edges. “Anyone done the right thing instead of being a sodding rubbernecker?”

Absolute silence. “You make me sick.” He glanced around the passengers and selected his victim. “RIght. Mr Hipster Beardy. You have two choices. Make the call yourself, or lose your phone whilst I do it. Which will it be?”

The man blinked with surprised alarm as being addressed so abruptly that he mutely handed it over

“First good thing you’ve done.” John regarded the rest of the passengers on the lower deck. “Your driver is in shock and probably won’t be able to continue. If you’ve got somewhere you need to be in a hurry, might I suggest that you take the back exit and fuck off. Otherwise, switch off your sodding cameras until the police ask if you saw anything. Understand?”

The sea of their faces was still and silent, cowed into silence. Most of the passengers left, as did a stream from the top deck. The last to leave was a woman who unzipped her coat as she approached, revealing a crushed nurse’s tunic. “Sorry. Dropped off after my shift.” She flashed her ID at John. “Can I help?”

John’s frown melted. “Ta. Best offer I’ve heard in weeks. Could you stay with the driver?” 

“No worries.”

John stepped off the bus and rang 999 whilst approaching the now-abandoned white van. He dropped to his hands and knees to look under it. _. Bit not good._ The biker was on their side between the curb and the far wheels. He scrambled to his feet and scooted round just as the operator on the other end picked up his call. Military training took over, as he relayed the details as he found it.

He was still in that mode when he reached the biker. A small trickle of blood was pooling through the cracked visor. There was the fractional movement of the hand nearest him, but nothing else.

“Shh. S’Alright. Help’s coming.” He put his hand around the gloved fingers. “Want to lift your visor. OK? One squeeze for no, two for yes.”

He waited for the repeated pulse of pressure against his hand before continuing. “That’s it. Just stay as still as you can. Not going to ask you to move until there’s a backboard around.” He reached across, fingers slipping against the filmy blood.

A pair of wide-set green eyes looked back at him. The left pupil was fractionally larger than the right, but both eyes tracked the movement of his finger.

“Can you breathe ok?” Two squeezes. ”Good. Going to loosen one of your gauntlets. OK?” Two squeezes, weaker than before. _Shit_.

The paramedics initially took him to be an additional casualty, given the state of his clothes until he gave them the ‘really?’ look and briefed them on the situation. He moved away to give them space to work, then answered the questions of the young PC who had arrived to take statements, before walking back to the bus. Hipster boy was still there, frozen in shame. John handed back the phone with a sharp nod. “A touch of basic decency wouldn’t go amiss next time.”

It was only when he was fumbling for his keys that he realised he'd left his shopping back outside the Co-op. _Fuck_.

At least he still had his wallet.

\----

"You do realise I can see you."

It was hard to startle Mycroft Holmes but a coherent sentence from a patient so recently unconscious did just that. He managed a faint smile. "Glad you've rejoined us. Should I call the doctor?"

He imagined her shaking her head. "They'll be back soon. I’m feeling fuzzy."

"That will be the concussion, combined with high-strength analgesics in your system."

"What else is broken, apart from my lovely bike?"

Mycroft sat down in the bedside chair. “Nothing that won't mend. And the police have been remarkably diligent in tracking down the miscreants who caused all this."

"Nothing to do with a minor civil servant leaning on the Chief Constable?"

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "A polite reminder about the need to improve the investigation of serious road traffic accidents is hardly leaning, Miss Milson. But-" he examined his nails as though expecting claws to appear – "there are advantages to being on the interminable membership committee of the Diogenes..."

"What about the soldier?"

"Soldier?"

"Smallish, on the grey side of blonde. Called the ambulance and kept me company until they arrived. Knew what he was up to, so maybe he's more of a medic."

Mycroft looked genuinely perplexed. He had arrived at the hospital moments after she had been admitted, and his entire focus had been on her treatment, rather than the immediate aftermath of the incident.

Anthea tried to roll her eyes, but it bloody hurt. "Not viewed the CCTV yet? You _are_ off your game."

"There were reasons for that, besides, where would I be able to access a secure network here? We're not on government property as such."

"Well, when you do, he'll be on there. Tatty wax jacket, jeans. You'd walk past him in a blink."

"Until he's called into action to come to the aid of an injured stranger?"

"I think you should look for him, and see what can be unearthed. Could be an interesting addition to the Institute. Strong moral compass, with the ability to make swift decisions and if he has the professional training that he appeared to have..."

"That would depend on whether he would be prepared to jump ship."

"Really, Mycroft, I despair of you sometimes. The biggest brain in England, and you can't put the pieces together."

"… I was somewhat distracted by your injuries and the nature of the incident. “

"Sentimental fool."

“No to the first, perhaps to the second." But his eyes were softer than she had seen in years. "I do not endure change easily. Receiving that phone call and the journey here is not an episode that I wish to repeat."

"Understood, though if I go to sleep then you need to do the same. Horizontally, on a bed or similar padded surface.” The smile she gave him hurt but it was worth it.

"Yes ma'am." He patted her hand.

"See you tomorrow, with what I hope will be news of your mysterious Samaritan."

"As you wish." He left her to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's life takes an unexpected turn, which starts with a bag of shopping and ends with an invitation to meet his (apparent) benefactors. So why does he feel like he's fallen into a low- budget spy film?

Chapter 3  
"Oi, wait a minute, I'm coming!" John dragged on trackie bottoms as he limped towards the door. _Who the fuck was this? Not even nine o' sodding clock_.  
He opened the door and found himself eye to stomach of a human wall dressed in expensive suiting.  
"Dr Watson?” The wall asked in a warm Caribbean accent.  
"Yes?"  
He smiled at John and passed him two bags of shopping. "I believe your shopping was disrupted when you came to the assistance of an accident victim."  
John blinked. Yesterday was a world away. "Erm, yes, that was me. She a colleague of yours?"  
"Of sorts. More my line manager than anything. And she's recovering nicely in hospital, according to reports."  
"Good to know. Would have done it for anyone."  
"Very public-spirited of you." The expensive suit pocket trilled. "Delightful to make your acquaintance, but duty calls." He held out the bags. "If you would just take these…"  
"Of course." John put the bags against the wall away from the door. "Give my regards to your boss of sorts."  
"Will do so, Doctor." The man strode away, leaving John's mouth flapping open and closed like a stranded fish. He closed the door before anyone could spot him then took the bags to what counted as the kitchen in the bedsit, frowning at their weight. There had only been milk, bread and some bananas on his list. What else was in there?  
_____________

"I take it you found him, Devon?"  
"Indeed, sir. I think he had just woken up, going by the state of his hair.”  
"What did you make of his environment ?"  
Devon shook his head. "Not much, Sir. To be honest other than that it's watertight and able to support a very basic existence.”  
"Acres of institutional pastel and carpet tiles?"  
"Something close to that, although the paintwork was more the half-arsed cream. Not somewhere I would choose to live."  
"I doubt many people would." Mycroft leaned forward in his chair. "How did you seem to you, scruffiness aside?"  
"Modest, self-enclosed. A bit taken aback by the shopping; clearly not in a position to refuse, but I think outright charity might stick in his throat-" Devon looked down at his hands. "– like it did for me at first."  
"Yes. Most perceptive of you. We'll let him settle for a few days before Phase Two begins."  
"Phase Two?"  
"Offering him the opportunity to consider joining our organisation." Mycroft smiled at his own ingenuity. "I'll keep you informed of any developments which might involve you."  
"Thank you, Mr Holmes. Shall I head back to Logistics?"  
"If you would, Devon. And thank you that was most... informative."  
"Of course, Sir."  
___________  
The two bags held enough to keep John fed for over a week, given his current battle with appetite. In addition, folded under everything else, was a pair of thermal fleece gloves and an envelope barely bigger than his bank card. He opened it without thinking.

Please accept these as a token of my appreciation. A good doctor should never have to suffer from cold hands.  
Sincerely, AM.

The gloves were an excellent fit, and clearly not from the type of shop he tended to use. He'd been in need of a new pair, and if this gift meant his pension stretched further this month, so much the better.

Almost a fortnight passed without further drama. John maintained his physio routine, fed the communal washing machine and even developed a nodding acquaintance with various members of the family who owned the corner shop. There were times that he felt eyes on his back when he ventured further, and the occasional glimpse of a gleaming black car out of the corner of his eye, but nothing he could put his finger on. In the end, he put it down to lifelong paranoia sharpened further by his service... Who would be stalking _him_?  
Until someone was.  
_____________________  
He was staring at the baked beans when he became aware of a presence at the end of the aisle. _Calm the fuck down, Watson. If there's someone there, tell them to sod off. If not, get over it_. He took a deep breath and turned.  
"If you're going to keep dropping into my existence, the least you can do is tell me your name."  
"It's Devon. And good to see you too, Doctor."  
"How is your colleague of sorts?"  
"Continuing to repair nicely, thank you. She and the One-we-all-call-God would like you to come to a meeting."  
"Whereabouts?"  
Devon smiled. "I'm not at liberty to say whilst in public, but I can assure you that you will come to no harm and that I will be at your entire disposal for the journey home afterwards."  
John considered his options. "And what if I refuse this kind and courteous approach?"

"Then I am doomed to follow you, all hours of the day and night until you either agree or issue a restraining order, which would be somewhat expensive and rather unnecessary."  
"I see. And for how long would the One-you-all-call-God and his assistant wish to see me?"  
"An hour, perhaps two - longer if a mutual agreement is reached."  
John put down his basket and folded his arms. "And that is not at all concerning…"  
"It isn't meant to be, I assure you."  
"Otherwise will it be taking place in all of the CCTV blind spots around here that can be found in the middle of Tesco on Wednesday morning?"  
Devon bit hard on the inside of his mouth to stop laughing. "I couldn't possibly say, Doctor. Will you come?"  
John shrugged. "Might as well get it over with, then. What's the worst that could happen? Alien abduction?"  
"There will be no Vogon poetry, I swear. At least not this time."  
"Just the cultish indoctrination?" John left his basket on the floor and followed Devon out, hoping he'd made the right decision. From all his jokes, his doubts remained.  
\------  
Devon was an accomplished driver, finding a path through the traffic so efficiently that they barely stopped, even the lights. He kept a discreet guileless eye on his passenger. It hadn't been so long, relatively speaking since he'd been in the back seat, sweating all his surface confidence into the third-hand suit bought from Cancer Research.  
"I am not driving you to your doom."  
"Right now, I'm trying to work out whether you work for SPECTRE or SMERSH."  
"Wrong again, Doctor. And just to be clear, neither the River House, or the bunch at Vauxhall Cross either."  
“You do surprise me, what with the car and the general persona...”  
"It’s all an act.”  
“Which you perform expertly…” He caught Devon’s glance in the rear view mirror and they exchanged grins.  
"It is always a pleasure to have your skills recognised. I do hope you’ll join us.”  
“So who’s the ‘Us’ in this conversation?”  
“I’ll leave that to the One-We-Call-God to explain. He’s better at it than me. But we are a very diverse collective.”  
"Meaning I should fit right in?"  
"If you want to.” Devon watched a cyclist come up on the curb side of the car and slowed accordingly. "All this is entirely optional."  
"But worth it?"  
Devon nodded. "Absolutely. And here we are."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know, this doesn't convince me that I'm not about to walk unarmed into the welcoming arms of the enemy."  
> "There is no convincing you, is there, Dr Watson?"  
> "Five years in the NHS and ten in the army breeds cynicism. I reserve the right to my own caution until proved wrong."
> 
> John , Mycroft Holmes and a face from his past...

He led John up the steps of an elegant Regency villa and pressed his palm flat against the panel set into the wall. There was a brief pulse of blue light and the panel gave off a soft chime before the door opened.  
John shot a glance. "You know, this doesn't convince me that I'm not about to walk unarmed into the welcoming arms of the enemy."  
"There is no convincing you, is there, Dr Watson?"  
"Five years in the NHS and ten in the army breeds cynicism. I reserve the right to my own caution until proved wrong."  
"Understandably."  
John's eyes swept the hall left and right as if looking for snipers. The high ceilings and elaborate plasterwork glisten as did the staircase which appeared to ascend to eternity. A woman's voice, low in cadence, spun him out of his daydream.

"This is an improvement on the last meeting, Dr Watson." John turned. The woman in front of him met his gaze full on. Her immaculate suit and carefully styled her contrasted sharply with the healing graze across her face and the right arm held in a high, tight sling.  
John held out his hand. "You look considerably better on the vertical plane, Ms…?"  
She shook his hand. "Milson, although I prefer Anthea. Thank you for coming today, even if you appeared somewhat resistant at first."  
"My mother always told me not to get into strange cars."  
"And yet here you are." She nodded at Devon. "Most diligent of you. We’ll talk later."  
"Certainly." Devon opened a half-concealed door and the panelling and disappeared from view.  
John glanced over at Anthea. "You do realise that so far nothing I've seen today has disabused me of this theory that I'm about to be disappeared by a secret organisation bent on world domination?"  
Anthea tilted her head to one side. Her smile took on a beguiling quality. "I'll let you judge that for yourself after you've met Mr Holmes."  
\--  
"Captain Watson."  
John stared back at the sharp-suited man behind the half-acre desk. "I don't call myself that any more. I prefer plain Doctor. And you are?"  
" Mycroft Holmes. Your opinion is understandable, I suppose. Please take a seat. Your leg would be better for it, I am sure."  
" I prefer to stand, thank you."  
"Very well then. Miss Milson, the latest consignment details have arrived. If you would…?"  
"Of course." She took a seat behind a lesser desk in an alcove. John followed Mycroft from the office, through the building and into the grounds.

"My family owned a significant expanse of land when this was just scrub and wooded vale. As London grew like a fungus towards us, parcels of it were released and sold off so as to secure our income. Now, all we have is Earl Street, designed by one of my more practically – minded ancestors."  
"It's a great deal more than most have got."  
"You always state the obvious, Dr Watson?"  
"Only when faced with pomposity."  
"You are a remarkable specimen."  
If that was meant to scare John, it did not work.  
"So, do you wish to put me under your microscope, or pin me up behind glass?" Holmes winced under the weight of the innuendo but quickly regained his composure. "Hardly. And that was meant as a compliment, not an insult or a 'come-on'. Most people would demonstrate some intimidation when brought into such an environment."  
"But then, I'm not most people. Takes more than talk about old money and secrecy to frighten me."  
"Clearly. Perhaps I should have realised that from the reports of your behaviour at the site of the accident which is, after all, the action which brought you to our attention."  
"So why have I been brought here?"  
"Because I have a professional proposition for you." They crossed the short courtyard and into another building at least a century younger than the main house.  
"This is the Sigerson Institute, founded by my great-grandfather in the early inter-war years, primarily for the purpose of exploring the potential of nonconventional treatment for what was then termed shell shock."  
"He a doctor then?"  
"No, a painter of mediocre watercolours and an excellent landlord. He started this war with four sons and ended it with one. The youngest came back from the trenches with significant and lasting neurological damage. He was brought here after being released from hospital to be cared for privately. Alternative treatments were developed here, enabling him to return to his life, marry and continue the family."  
“And what did these alternative treatments entail? Drugs? Electrotherapy? Painting blotches on big canvases?"  
“The identification of a condition defined as sensory malnutrition."  
"Touch starvation?"  
Holmes sighed. "That is the crudest terminology, I suppose, often used by the less informed." They walked down the short bright corridor towards a pleasant seating area.  
"My great uncle Edmund received severe wounds to his leg which then became infected and he narrowly escaped amputation. The wound did not heal until a new nurse on the ward began to work with him."  
John smirked. "Romantic interest?"  
“More the fact that he responded to her presence to the point that his symptoms worsened in her absence of more than a few days."

"What was she doing?"  
"Applying positive, consensual touch."  
"Hardly a scientific breakthrough." John's hand clenched into a fist. “Perhaps stepping over the boundaries of accepted clinical practice in places, but nothing stranger than that."  
"As you might think," continued Holmes. "The difference was that the patients entrusted to her care fared significantly better than they might have been expected to."  
"The dead walking, eh?"  
He paused. _It really was like talking to a bright but inattentive child_. "The implication made by the experts at the time was that those patients who benefited from the laying on of hands saw an increased recovery from their wounds and had a far greater chance of rehabilitation as a result."  
"So why wasn't this more widely adopted if it proved to be so wildly successful?"  
"Because whilst the results could be measured, the level of contact treatment could not be entirely quantified to the satisfaction of researchers. In addition, the senior, more puritanical members of the medical profession found the concept of touch therapy distasteful and bordering on state-sanctioned immorality. The loudly whispered concerns of the narrow-brained won the day, and the concept of touch therapy remains beyond the fringes of medical practice in establishments such as these, who treated those who could pay and funded some of those who could not."  
"And what is your role in the family enterprise? I don't take you as a member of the medical profession."  
Holmes was momentarily aghast. “I was told at an early age that my professional path would be as a policymaker, smoothing the way of those more directly involved with the rehabilitation of survivors. I bend the ears of Whitehall and encourage donations which fund the work. Each of us has our talents. Which brings me directly to the purpose of our presence here today."  
"Which is?"  
"To offer you a role here, of course. We are looking for an individual who has had extensive experience of trauma medicine, specifically in the uniformed and armed forces sector to join the existing team. Our clients are from a variety of backgrounds but all are in some stage of recovery from sensory malnutrition due to a number of situations. We treat up to five patients on a residential basis at any one time, with significantly more coming in for workshop support, enabling them to return to an active and meaningful existence. Our insurance demands that we have conventionally trained clinicians alongside our therapy team, which is where you would find a role. Full-time, live-in, with all expenses covered and a salary that I believe you would find to be commensurate with your previous career trajectory."  
"What's the catch?"  
"Total professional commitment to the Institute. The work completed here has to remain entirely confidential. We are not advocating that you sever all links outside; merely that you refrain from discussing the nature of your work with anyone not directly related to it; discretion is crucial to our success."

"But why me? You could walk into any hospital and pick out dozens of other perfectly qualified individuals."  
"Perhaps. But your recent actions marked you out as an excellent candidate, and it's not as if those hospitals are queueing up for your notice, are they, and despite the well-publicised lack of domestic GPs, you have found yourself unable to find locum work."  
John bristled. "So this is how you do it," he spat. "Look for people on the slide, give them the hush-hush bullshit, and then expect them just to knock your hand off?"  
"Occasionally, but I believe that you are too quick to take offence in this context.Your reaction to the accident last month no doubt saved at least one life. You demonstrate a need to be considered useful and for your skills to be recognised. Please allow us to satisfy that."  
"And what if I do?"  
"You will be given every opportunity to utilise your experience and be well rewarded for it."  
"And how long am I permitted to consider this offer?"  
"As long as you require, but I doubt that will be an age."  
“Your belief in your own success is staggering."  
Holmes, smiled . "The combination of professional experience plus inherent traits.” They had reached the end of the corridor. "I would like you to meet someone whom you may find of interest. He's been with us for some years now and is better placed to explain technical and clinical elements of the role.” He knocked briefly on the door and waited.  
"Come in," boomed a familiar voice from a corner of the room. The door opened.  
"My God! It is you!"  
John blinked as a very real ghost from his past wrapped him in an enthusiastic hug. But even he couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "So this is where you vanished off to, you daft bastard. How the fuck are you?"  
Michael Aloysius Stamford let go of him and beamed as though his face would break. "All the better for seeing you, mate."  
Holmes concealed his pleasure behind the slightest of smiles. He watched them hug for a moment before coughing politely. "It would appear that you both have a great deal on which to catch up. Dr Stamford, if you could bring Dr Watson back to the main building when you're through?"  
Mike released John and nodded. They both watched Mycroft depart before taking the opportunity to catch up on a missed decade.  
\--  
They sat in the staff lounge. "You still allergic to anything other than mouse-trotting builders' tea?"  
John merely shrugged. "As long as it's warm, wet and stronger than gnat's piss, it'll do."  
"Just as well really."  
"You still haven't answered my question, Mike." John took one of the mugs and sat down at the table. "What the hell are you doing here?"  
"Living, working. Saving the universe one damaged soul at a time." His smile was bright and genuine. "So what happened to you?"  
"Got shot, or rather blasted. Swapped a couple of rounds in the leg for titanium pins. They patched me up then posted me home. MRSA took me for a dance whilst I recovered and left me with idiopathic neuropathy. So bye-bye, active Army career. Not much call for a surgeon with shaky hands...even in a depleted NHS.”  
"Oh mate, sorry to hear it. Where are you living now?"  
“A post-rehab unit in Camden. Bit grim, but dry, warm and cheap enough for me to live and while I work out what the fuck I'm going to do next."  
"So how did Mycroft Holmes find you?"  
"He didn't. I was the one with enough brain who called the blues and twos when that Miss Milson got knocked off her bike."  
"Oh, that was you!. All I knew was that Anth had come a cropper on that gorgeous machine of hers and some off duty hero had helped out." Mike couldn't help but grin at the pure coincidence of it all. "Mycroft was all aflutter about it. Well, as much as he allows himself to be about anything."  
"So are they an item, or is it just a very close personal working relationship?"  
"The latter. He doesn't let anyone that close. He's a bit of an odd bird, but I assure you there is a heart under that.."  
"So how long have you been here?"  
"Nearly five years. Finished a research fellowship in the sensory recovery unit at Bart's, when I was approached by the Dark Lord himself, asking whether I would be interested in moving. He seemed remarkably well-informed about my work for a non-medic, and also the predicament I was facing when the grant dried up. He offered me an alternative selling my soul to the pharmaceutical gods."  
"Lending it to him for possibly nefarious deeds instead?"  
"Absolutely. He offered a permanent contract, almost limitless resources and an up-to-the-minute environment. All that and having job satisfaction of seeing positive results for patients."  
"And the catch?"  
"Being on call twenty-four seven, which includes being able to travel with a few hours’ notice. Doesn't exactly do much for an external social life, but the last five years I’ve made real progress in the work I want to do, and seen a fair chunk of the world."  
"Good for you Mike. Fancy explaining the main focus of your work?"  
"As he should have told you, we’re focused on the treatment, stabilising and rehab of survivors of unlawful captivity and associated traumas. Initial trials could only use observational and anecdotal evidence, but now we have the means to trace recovery on a biochemical level by scans and tests."  
Mike warmed to his subject. "Put simply, we’re a tactile species. Infants who are barely shown any affection from birth are less likely to build positive connections with others and are more prone to infections. The work which began here between these walls proved beyond doubt the touch of the therapeutic effect after trauma. Now we're building the scientific case."  
"So, if I did join you, what would I be doing? I've barely touched the microscope since leaving Uni."  
"Well, that will be up to you. My time is very evenly split between the clinic and the lab. I’ve got two clinician researcher alongside me, Molly and Bill, who are at a conference today. And then there's the rotating care teams who spend most of their time with patients while they are here, depending on what support they need. You would be working alongside one of them."  
"So according to himself, if this is only a five-bed unit, how do you identify your patients?"  
“Contacts within the police and armed forces for the most part, although some come via the NHS after they've received basic clinical treatment. No one is here against their will – we don't accept sectioned patients because the very first principle of the system here is informed choice."  
"Because that's the first loss in captivity?"  
"Precisely. Your main role, at least initially, would be to monitor the physiological rehab of the patients, with a view to gradually taking a role in therapeutics, as familiarity with the treatment process increases."  
“Okay, so I'll not just be turning into a very expensive massage therapist?"  
"Not unless you want to be. There were those on the rugby team that used to swear on your magic touch. And not just up against the wall at the end of the night…"  
John grinned at the memory, basking in the pleasure of Mike's company. It had been far too bloody long since he'd felt this comfortable. Probably not since his first tour.  
Mike waved a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Watson…?"  
"Ha fucking ha. So, what else are you going to show me?"  
"Not so much on the clinical side, seeing as we're quiet at the moment, but why don't you come see where I've been living? Think it was the view which sold it to me."  
John glanced out of the window, taking in the endless blue of the sky and the glittering buildings beyond. “I can see how that might sway you…”  
As pleasant and friendly as Mike was, John knew he had to make this decision by himself.

A future that he couldn't possibly have imagined beckoned. A prickly feeling grew in the back of his mind, just like it had the night before he started basic training. He might never wear khakis again, and he might never command another surgical team, but the Institute was offering him a chance he couldn't ignore.  
He took one last look at the London skyline and realised he'd made up his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John joins the team and awaits further orders.

Even John Watson, who didn’t faff about when making decisions, was taken aback at the speed at which the Sigerson moved.  
Two months ago, he’d been a shambling creature held together by bloody-mindedness and tea. One month ago, he’d come to the aid of an accident victim and become the target of vaguely benevolent stalking.  
And now he was here, comfortably installed in a flat in the mansion block behind the Sigerson, his bank balance plumped with a golden hello.  
It didn't stop the nerves. Nothing would, until he actually started doing something.  
A knock on the front door shook him out of his worriting.  
Devon greeted him. "Afternoon, Doctor. I hope I haven't disturbed you?"  
"Not now that I know who you work for. Although I would prefer that you called me John. Any use of my title reeks of trouble to my ears."  
"As you wish. Mr Holmes wants to see you." He handed him a leather-bound tablet. " A new patient has been identified.“  
John turned the tablet over in his hands, examining the case. Toughened leather and discreetly reinforced edges. Probably cost as much as what it held. "Thanks. Thought I was supposed to be shadowing Mike?”  
"I understand that you will be, albeit off the premises."  
“Will I need my passport?”  
“Not unless eastern England has detached itself.”  
"Understood. Thanks, Devon."  
"Any time."  
John grabbed his coat and took a last look around his new flat.  
_Into battle_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends, for now.  
> Part two of the series, Resurrection, will focus on the fate of a certain Scotland Yard DI ...

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a while in the making. It is complete, and acts as the first fic in a short series. I will be posting new chapters in the coming days, providing life and work do not turn out to be four letter words. The tags will be augmented as the story progresses to avoid spoilers, but be assured that nothing awful happens here. There will be darker themes in the following fics, but nothing which goes unresolved.


End file.
